


All Roads Lead Home

by Rainwater_Apothecary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Mentions, Established Relationship, Gen, Gift Fic, Jaskier didn't have A Great Time growing up, M/M, Modern Day, Panic Attacks, all the witchers are at least a little feral, everybody loves each other and nothing hurts, ex-military eskel, family fic, implied suicidal urges, it works w/e, while also being a get-together fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainwater_Apothecary/pseuds/Rainwater_Apothecary
Summary: It's Eskel's birthday and all the Morhen's are on FaceTime.  Jaskier is a little late, but that's 'on time' for Jaskier. They all love him. They all love each other.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74





	All Roads Lead Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WordsAblaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsAblaze/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Rima!! Kinda took your prompt and ran with it but my god its all so soft and I big lov u!

Julian ‘Jaskier’ Morhen-Pankratz checked his watch (slightly too expensive to _not_ be a gift from his father) and blew his bangs out of his face. He was going to be late, goddamnit.

At least he was going to be _fashionably_ late, both in timing and in dress. Though when was he _not_ the picture of chic and stylish? 

Evenings with his husband on the couch in said husband’s clothes didn’t count. That was _their_ time, not the public’s. 

While Jaskier was grateful for his singer/songwriter career taking off (and not a little vindictively smug at his biological family who didn’t think he was worth shit), it made it hard to plan date nights. 

Though when it began to irritate Eskel that his schedule was so hectic, re-working had to be done. 

Esk was understanding enough about his chronic inability to be anywhere on time, and he was respectful of Eskel’s need for _some_ form of structure. 

“Hello! Yes! Helleuuuuuuuuuw~” Jaskier kicked his shoes off beside Eskel’s disaster of a shoe pile. He tried, bless him. 

“Ah, there’s my favorite son.” Vesemir’s voice came across Eskel’s FaceTime sort of grainy, but at least he’d figured out how to hold the phone so they could _see_ his face. No more looking at the carpet or up his nostrils, thank god. 

“You’re late.” Geralt growled. His five year old must be sitting on his throat again. Jaskier shook his head affectionately. 

“Geralt! And Ciri!” Jaskier waved animatedly as he settled his guitar case lovingly against the wall. 

“'ASKIER!” Yep, Ciri was sitting near the camera if her volume was any indicator. The blue-eyed menace grinned at his green-eyed terror before giving his husband a kiss on his war-torn lips. 

Eskel beamed up at him before chuckling as the musician clabbered over the back of the couch and settled across his lap like a pile of elbows and knees. How a man so muscular as his husband could become all edges and cat-like grace* was beyond Eskel’s understanding. 

*When a cat falls off of something in a heap of fur, legs, and shocked eyes. The parallels were uncanny. 

“What kept you this time, songbird?” 

Jaskier laughed brightly at the gravelly voice so close to his ear, though he tilted his cheek closer to kissing range. As a treat. 

No, as a blatant hint, get on that man. 

Eskel shook his head and brushed a soft kiss over the singer’s cheekbone in a manner that still made Jaskier blush like it was their first date. 

Their first _real_ date, they had known each other for _ages_ before Jaskier stopped pining and realized ‘oh hell this is reciprocated I just happened to fall for the shy-est of the Morhen Morons.’ 

Speaking of which. 

“Gross, get a room.” 

“Lamby!” Jaskier shot back with a grin. 

“Asshole!” Eskel’s youngest brother replied cheerily. 

“Boys! There are little ears present!” Vesemir reprimanded as Geralt rolled his eyes. Ciri heard worse any time he stubbed his toe or got surprised. 

“Ah yes, my apologies, Papa Morhen.” Jaskier placed a hand over his heart solemnly. ‘Here we go.’ Eskel smirked knowingly. Geralt sighed in defeat before flipping his progeny off of his back in a blur of shrieking and laughing. 

“It was truly my error to swear in front of Lambert. It shan’t happen again.” 

Ciri’s ‘little ears’ were protected from the long stream of obscenities from her youngest uncle while her dad tickled her belly. A solid _whack_ sounded as Geralt grunted. The kid packed a solid kick and had just landed one on her dad. 

“Attagirl.” Eskel grinned softly, to himself. 

“Ah, right, Eskel.” All background activity ceased at the sound of their beloved father and grandfather clearing his throat. Ciri towed Geralt back to the phone. 

“I got you a little something, for whenever you come home.” 

Jaskier smiled to himself as the man beneath him began to vibrate with child-like excitement. 

Never too old to get a birthday present from dad. 

An odd sound came from Vesemir’s end and Eskel froze. Jaskier was almost ejected from his man’s lap as the big man leaned forward suddenly, as if the comparatively small phone screen would give him a better view if he got closer. Eskel’s little bird of a husband made an unattractive squished noise of surprise before latching his arms behind his man’s neck. 

“One of the neighbor’s goats had kids, and this one seemed like someone you would resonate with." 

Everyone froze, except Ciri who was tugging on her own dad’s hair while her grandfather picked up a bundle of white fur. 

“She’s yours, Eskel. Happy birthday.” 

Jaskier was grateful he’d had the foresight to secure his arms around his husband _before_ the brute leapt to his feet and pumped his fist. 

“Oh _sure_ , _Eskel_ gets his dream pet and what do _I_ get? A pocketknife?” Lambert exclaimed. Vesemir made a face as he put the goatling back on the ground behind him. It bleated before the older man exclaimed wordlessly and dove off-screen to save the barn wall from the eternally-ravenous teeth of a goat. Vesemir was in the barn so often when they called that neither Eskel or Jaskier thought twice. 

Geralt looked thunderstruck. Eskel had been asking for a goat for the farm ever since they were able to walk, basically. Now that everyone had moved out, _now_ Vesemir saw fit to get Eskel a goat? Even if it _was_ the runt of the litter, as he claimed (which Geralt didn’t know whether to be amused by or insulted on his brother’s behalf). Eskel had stars in his eyes regardless, so if his older brother was good with it, then that was good enough for him. 

For now. 

“Lambert, great-grandfather’s hunting knife isn’t just a pocketknife, you ungrateful little bitch.” Geralt chuckled, covering Ciri’s ears just in time to avoid his father’s ire when Vesemir came back on screen just to glare at his middle son. 

Jaskier continued to holler as he was carried around their living room. He had been correct in his knowledge that his gym buddy, ex-farmer, ex-special forces of a husband hadn’t felt him when he stood up and had put an arm beneath him instinctively instead of consciously. 

“You great side of beef _put me down_! I married a bear instead of a man, Vesemir! Help-!” Jaskier’s cries faded into the background before Eskel returned empty-handed. 

“Did you pitch him out a window?” Lambert looked too excited at the prospect. Eskel chuckled and brushed his hair behind one ear. 

“You wish, Lam.” 

“I am insulted! I am hurt! Lambert how dare you attempt to be rid of me in such an unpoetic manner!” 

The youngest Morhen brother snapped his fingers in a comedic ‘damn’ motion as his brother-in-law came back into the living room holding alcohol. Probably some sort of beer for Eskel and hard cider or something for Jask, if he had to guess. 

From Eskel’s wince at the bottle Lambert had to re-assess. 

It was probably something strong, Polish, and unforgiving. 

Aunty's Secret Recipe. 

Lambert really did like his brother-in-law. 

\- 

…Come to think of it, Jaskier’s aunt’s secret recipe was what had brought the two families together in the first place. 

Memories of a shady bar just off campus came flooding back to the youngest Morhen – well, the youngest Morhen sans-Ciri, who Geralt didn’t know he had yet – as Lambert took in the merciless clink of their drinks before his brother and best friend downed a decent pull from each dark bottle. 

Spirits that could make a man go _blind_ surfaced in the recovering alcoholic’s mind as he remembered how Jaskier had cheerfully drank bikers under the table and continued flirting with the bartender. Lambert remembered this because he was _also_ trying to get in the bartender’s pants, but he couldn’t help but be impressed as the little Slavic kid defeated men twice his bodyweight and continued to be lucid. 

They had both stumbled home without the bartender who was tragically straight. 

Then Jaskier told the frat boy his preferred name and pulled out his aunt’s secret recipe from his fridge. Yes, that was its name. Yes, it had to be watered down, trust him. 

Lambert never doubted Julian Pankratz ever again. 

He just doubted if they’d never slept together, though Jaskier swore up and down that they didn’t. 

Eskel had been added to the mix shortly after Geralt had been, since the white-haired brother was in his final year of college and Eskel was an alum. What Jaskier was doing at such a tiny, mountain and forestry school way up in the mountains was anyone’s guess, though if Lambert hadn’t been blackout drunk on the night the brothers and honorary brother had been passing stories back and forth he would have known. 

Eskel knew. 

Eskel always knew. 

\- 

He’d been there for the first panic attack. 

If it was going to be any of the Morons, at least it was the soft-spoken one with the beautiful eyes. 

Sometimes Jaskier wondered what the hell he’d been _thinking_ having a gay little crush on Geralt when his brother was the keeping type. 

The singer/songwriter pressed his back up against the warm barnwood of the Morhen farm where their hunting/fishing/swordfighting – yep, the man owned a broadsword in this day and age, right over the mantel – mechanic father had retired to. Meeting _him_ had been a shock, coming from just knowing Lambert ‘leather and leather is coordinating’ Morhen, Geralt ‘I’m too gorgeous to care’ Morhen, and Eskel 'jeans and flannel work right?' Morhen. No, Vesemir wore honest to gods _furs_ and an _eyepatch_. 

Seeing the boys settle back into their father’s place was like watching them begin to breathe. Jaskier had seen a strength to all three (especially Eskel but shhh) and they were all built like brick shithouses (again, especially the eldest), but watching them climb trees and throw one another into the pond was like seeing a wild animal in its natural habitat when previously it had lived in a zoo. The brothers made do with the modern world, but they were built for following trails in the underbrush where trees grew too close to let light in and dive deeper than anyone Jaskier had ever known without coming up for air. They moved silently when they wanted to, and joked and wrestled loudly when they didn’t. 

Needless to say it was a visual _treat_ for the little musician who set out a lawn chair and watched the big lugs do chores, shirtless, all summer. 

It was then that Jaskier’s parents hit. 

They didn’t want him to continue school, not with his father getting sick and his own half-brothers being too young to take over the company. His mother had come through loud and clear through her phone call, despite the shitty signal. 

She gave him two days to pack up and leave the school where she assumed he still was. 

Two days to pack up his life. 

Two days to pack up his work. 

Two days until he had to go back to being Julian Pankratz, prosecutor-at-law with the Pankratz Firm. 

His mother had effectively clipped his wings and he _lost it_. 

He’d stood up and strode into the barn where he collapsed in an empty stall and hit the back of his head against the wall. 

When his head throbbed and his eyes saw stars he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to hear his mother’s voice spiraling around his brain and he didn’t have to contemplate the inevitability of everything he loved about being Jaskier being packed up into a gilded cage. 

He wasn’t built for law, he just wasn’t. He knew enough to squeak by, and he had enough lawyer genes in his body to get into arguments with his father, but he couldn’t hold people’s futures in his hands and tear them apart. 

It would kill him. 

It almost had. 

It would this time, he knew it. 

“Jaskier- Jas?” 

The eldest Morhen had seen him leave. Of course he had. Why did he have to be so considerate and kind? Why couldn’t he just leave Jaskier here to brood and panic in _peace_? 

Because he cared. 

Oh gods, Eskel _cared_ about him. 

Eskel considered him his _friend_. 

The thought almost sent him into tears on top of the hyperventilating panic he’d found himself in. 

“Can I touch you?” Normally, yes. Enthusiastically and often yes. 

He shook his head fast. Too fast. When had he started covering his ears? His nails were digging into the skin at his temples but he couldn’t move. 

He was stuck, frozen, tense, pulsing with the beginnings of a headache that he’d gotten himself a lá barn wall – when had Eskel put something behind his head? When-? 

Jaskier was becoming a whirlwind of thoughts and sensations and he _couldn’t stop_. 

“I can’t do this.” He whimpered. Eskel’s eyebrows rose. 

“Can’t do what, Jas?” 

When had the shortening of his name become so intimate? Geralt only used the full word, Lambert used ‘Jask’, but none of them were as soft a sound as Eskel had chosen. 

He caved. 

Eskel very quickly had a chest full of music student and the man was weeping and saying something about his… mother? And a firm? Firm what? 

Eskel didn’t think he was good at things that weren’t physical, so he did what he could: He hugged his friend. He held him as tight as needed for as long as he needed it. 

Bit by bit he helped separate Julian from Jaskier. 

“Yeah, I’m a rich kid from an affluent family. Poor little rich boy, I can hear you thinking it.” 

“No, I was thinking ‘what could have happened to make someone like you think they have no way out?’.” He answered on instinct and Jaskier looked up with stars in his eyes. 

Big, teary and slightly red from crying, beautiful blue eyes. 

Eskel knew from that moment that he didn’t stand a chance. He’d had a thing for Jask from the first time he saw him. Who wouldn’t? He was beautiful and roguish and so _funny_. And his _waist_. Eskel didn’t know if it was naturally that trim or if he was wearing contrasting colors but gods. He wanted to hold that waist in his arms with a fierceness that startled him. 

But what did he have to offer? He was a farmboy even the military had had its fill of. 

Alright so he was a farmboy who had watched Titanic one too many times, but he couldn’t help that it was one of his favorite movies to watch when going through a breakup. 

…Not that this was knowledge he was going to impart to the sobbing musician for any reason. Even if he knew the guy _probably_ wouldn’t judge him. 

Eskel was going to avoid mentioning his love life or lack thereof to the gorgeous man in his arms bar-none. 

It was better that way. 

Even though he didn’t want to let the man in his arms go. 

When Jaskier moved, he didn’t move far. Eskel was astonished that Jaskier had chosen _him_ to come clean to… but he had. The two men sat side-by-side in the warm barn and let Jaskier tell the tale of a mentally ill rich boy who was a threat to himself and a danger to others. This boy found something that made him want to live in a life where he didn’t fit in and he had to wear a suit over his proverbial feathers. 

“You’re a songbird, Jas.” The other man had breathed. 

And that was that. 

Jaskier didn’t pack up and go back to where his parents were. He stayed in the tiny college surrounded by park rangers and lumberjacks and he composed and he lived and he loved. 

Then he moved in with the love of his life and the rest, as they say, is history. 

A history made up of teaching the grandfather to your niece how to use FaceTime and keeping your brother from breaking out of rehab. 

Of being hit on by the bartender this time only to leave with a group of large, strong, attractive men. 

Of being happy and cozy enough that Jaskier could let his husband physically toss him onto their bed even when they weren’t about to fuck their brains out. 

Of trust built high enough to know that Eskel wasn’t going to die from Aunty’s Secret Recipe. 

“What, you’re gonna give Ciri a _horsey_ next?” Lambert bickered as Eskel shuddered around the god-awful liquor watered down just enough to not be deadly. Jaskier knew him. 

“I believe she’s old enough for at least a pony, what do you think, Geralt?” 

“I say her mother will skin us both-“ 

The two men settled back on the couch to the sound of Lambert laughing like a braying mule and Ciri jumping up and down on her dad’s crotch (thus the laughter from Lambert) in excitement. 

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the veins, and there were three adoption certificates and a marriage license that held this family together while Jaskier’s blood stayed far, far away. 

“Happy birthday, my love.” Jaskier breathed as he rested his head on his lover’s shoulder. 

“Thanks, songbird.” Eskel whispered back, soft as a song.


End file.
